


The Loser's Prize

by ba_lailah



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/F, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 13:00:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25970104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ba_lailah/pseuds/ba_lailah
Summary: Fausta is sprawled on her back in the sand, disarmed, Aurelia's blade at her throat."I yield," she gasps, and in that moment her heart is in her eyes, for those who would care to see it.
Relationships: Victorious Gladiatrix/Defeated Gladiatrix
Comments: 14
Kudos: 28
Collections: Femsub Semi-Flash 2020





	The Loser's Prize

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thatsparrow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatsparrow/gifts).



After all the endless years upon years of training, the strains and sprains and cuts and contusions, the gear worn to shreds and replaced and worn to shreds again, the competition entrance fees (and bribes, when needed), and the heartfelt nightly prayers to any god who has even the slightest connection to battles and warriors... after all that, the fight itself is shockingly brief. It's not anticlimactic, very much not that. Fausta fights hard, and it's nearly enough. She decorates Aurelia's tanned skin with scrapes and bruises—more than any gladiatrix has managed to leave on the famous champion in many years, and the crowd gasps and hushes with each one. She almost lands one good blow that might have done more than scratch, and when Aurelia dives away from it, Fausta slices through the lace of the champion's sandal, a moment that will live on in legend. But only a minute later, Fausta is sprawled on her back in the sand, disarmed, Aurelia's feet—one shod, one bare—on either side of her, Aurelia's blade at her throat.

"I yield," she gasps, and in that moment her heart is in her eyes, for those who would care to see it.

Aurelia sees it, and her own eyes narrow. She says nothing, only drives her sword into the sand and reaches down to clasp Fausta's arm and pull her to her feet—an immense honor, and Fausta is so stunned by it she almost loses her grip on Aurelia's wrist. But she stands, and it is almost as though there are two winners in the arena that day. Aurelia's brow is the one garlanded with laurels, but the crowd's ovation is for Fausta too. She hadn't expected any of this, hadn't even wanted it, and the attention leaves her reeling. She's glad when she can finally flee to the baths.

There's feasting that night, and the wine flows freely. Perhaps too freely into Fausta's cup, for when Aurelia is suddenly standing before her, Fausta can't keep a look of desperate yearning from crossing her face.

"Prima," she says, bowing her head until she can school her expression.

"Secunda," Aurelia says, imbuing the loser's title with respect. "You fought surpassingly well."

"It was my honor to share the arena with you," Fausta says, as though that could convey a fraction of how she feels.

Aurelia reaches into the bag she's carrying and hands Fausta a worn sandal with its lace cut through. "You left your prize behind," she says. "I kept it for you."

Fausta stares up at her. In the lamplight, Aurelia is luminous. Her dark hair is a swirl of shadow beneath the laurel crown; her pristine white tunic glows. On her bare arms, Fausta sees the marks from their fight—the marks left by Fausta's sword and feet and fists. She can't breathe for a moment. She feels as though she has desecrated a goddess.

All she wants is to fall at Aurelia's feet, but she's not quite drunk enough to do that in the middle of the feast. Instead, she looks Aurelia in the eye and slowly brings the sandal to her lips, pressing a single kiss to it. The broken thong brushes her chin. The scents of sand and sweat-soaked leather fill her nose, and for a moment she's transported back to the arena. Then she lowers the sandal to her lap and waits, daring to hope.

With a callused hand, Aurelia tips Fausta's chin upward, drawing a finger down to rest against the pulse in Fausta's throat. There's a scratch there from the point of Aurelia's sword, and Fausta hopes it leaves a scar to remind her that, for a moment, this woman owned her life. Right now it's raw, and Aurelia's fingertip on it stings deliciously.

"As for my prize," Aurelia says, "I'm here to claim it."

Fausta trembles. "I yield," she says once more, pouring all the years of longing into her voice. Her dream was never to win.

Aurelia clasps her by the wrist and draws her to her feet. "Follow me," she says. And Fausta does.


End file.
